Nothing Like Tomorrow
by profoundfish
Summary: Sometimes the only thing harder than staying alive is living; England and Canada are forced to learn this the hard way.  Implied USUK.


**A/N: So...it's me. Back again. With more depressing Hetalia stuff. D; My addiction to Hetalia grows worse every passing moment...Eh, I endeavored to write this anyway. Even though none of it was planned. At all. It just...happened. O.o I think I was channeling the spirits of Hetalia or something. Eh. Well, there's a bit of USUK (if you speak *coughArthurcough* tsundere), but that's just because I was writing England. USUK happens when I'm writing England. D; I guess you could see AmeCan...Or NetherCan...Or PruCan...if you look really, really hard. But...Mattie is Mattie, so who knows? By the way, the song titles are just the songs I stuck on replay while writing. Feel free to listen to them while reading...or not. Abel = Netherlands.**

**Disclaimer: I wish I had my own, unique, 100% witty way to say that I do not own Hetalia. All rights to that Hidekaz Himaruya guy. **

* * *

><p><em>EVERYBODY LOVES ME - <em>_ONEREPUBLIC_

Aw, _shit_. Aw, _fucking _shit.

If Artie could hear me now, he'd wash my mouth out with soap and subject me to hours of torture by means of ghost-related shiiii-stuff.

But..._shit!_

At first, they'd made it sound like a good idea; good enough for me to go along with it, anyway. Aha, and when we got there, they ran off and left me to deal with it on my own. Me, the only one of us who didn't have enough experience to fill a tot's sneaker.

When I was a kid, I always assumed I'd be some kinda hero: maybe a policeman, or a fireman, or a soldier. I _never_ thought I'd be on the other side of the law, not until my parents kicked it and left my brother and I on our own. Of course I'd let him go off to college; it was his _dream_, the one thing he really wanted, and hell if I'd stand in the way of that.

But damn, was it hard to pay the guy's way through college. If he knew some of the sh-stuff I'd done to get the money in on time, he'd probably castrate me with a hockey stick. Or a maple leaf, depending on his mood...Regardless, there I was, trying to rob a bank on my own and failing rather miserably. I'd even bet they filled those bags with counterfeits, just to spite me. Oh yeah, banker-dudes, I saw those sarcastic smirks...

Not that it mattered now, as I ran for my future, red and blue lights flashing behind me while multiple sirens screeched in their wake. Once upon a time, I might've found them pleasantly patriotic; now, I was just prayin' to whoever the hell had time to duck in and save my sorry ass-uh, at...am...arse! Arse. Please, mystical being, save my arse. I really, _really_ don't want to have Mattie pulled out of college just because I'm a total idiot who can't live on my own...

I used to gamble. I'd stumble into some casino, drunk off my ass-arse (British words just sound so _tame_), and plop down at whatever table looked like it was packed with the most money. Less than a week later, I was farther in the hole than I'd been when I started working my way through my parents' debt. Anyway, that was about my luck; I'd take a chance, and end up a thousand times worse for it.

Running around in the street like some kinda possessed kid (freaky!) probably wasn't the best idea to begin with, even if I _was_ being chased by the feds. With my luck, though, it was total suicide. Of course, I was still a little surprised when I realized there was a massive eighteen wheeler speeding towards me. For a split second, I was frozen, and I really sympathized with those poor deer. Headlights coming out of nowhere was damn _scary._

And it hurts, the impact. Hurts so fucking bad, I forgot my (sort of) resolution to (kind of) not curse. Not that I was conscious enough to really focus on what my mouth was spewing (a mixture of muddled swearing and blood).

Naw, you don't really hang around too long after getting hit by somethin' that big. Rule of thumb, I guess.

Y'know, I googled that (dangerous place, Google), and apparently, that started off with a bunch of Brits who made some kinda rule that said they could only beat their wives with sticks as thick as their thumbs...Ha, Artie would just give me a good smack to the rear with his palm.

Damn...Am I dead? It doesn't hurt so much anymore...

Damn...I'm sorry, Mattie, Artie, but everything feels a lot better here...

* * *

><p><em>EVERYBODY'S CHANGING - KEANE<em>

_SLEEPYHEAD - PASSION PIT_

_CAT AND MOUSE - RED JUMPSUIT APPARATUS_

Sometimes I just look up at the stormy gray London sky and _almost _wish I were back in America, where the sun shone brightly every day, engulfed in vibrant blue. It's just rather depressing, always expecting rain. Always expecting the phone call that never arrives.

No matter how long I stare at the blasted thing, it refuses to ring. By now, I'm willing to bet that even if it _did_ ring, the person on the other line wouldn't be the fellow I was waiting for.

Bloody Americans. Even back when I still lived across the pond, things rarely went my way. As a matter of fact, directly after I moved into that white house across the street, my new neighbors ambushed me. I still don't understand how they lived in that ruddy shack of theirs; it was far too small for two teenagers, even if they were twins. I'd have died if I had to live in it with any of my siblings (especially Adrian, the bloody git).

They got by, though, and later on, I couldn't keep myself from admiring them...Particularly the older. Of course, his brother was a fair chap too, but there was something about that stupid, brilliant smile that made me feel ridiculously warm and fuzzy inside. If only he weren't so hopelessly loud, and annoying, and American, and kind, and selfless, and not half-bad in the looks department...

But I digress. They were my (best) mates, and one day, they up and left, not bothering to leave word of where they'd gone. I suppose that's just my luck. After years of being the odd one out, the sad, strange little boy that no one liked, I finally found myself some good (the best) mates, and they vanished without a trace. Adrian teased me, you know; told me the fairies probably got jealous and spirited them away. I gave him a good hook to the jaw, he retaliated, et cetera. I've lived with him for most of my life, and hell if I cannot handle myself in a brawl.

Later, sporting a bloodied nose and a fresh, purpling bruise on my cheek, I asked the fairies if they had really been the ones to take Alfred and Matthew away. An hour after that, I'd asked all of my other 'invisible' friends, and had even bothered to summon that odd Russian fellow who was, apparently, the devil. Made a bloody fool of myself, too. I suppose Adrian was right to tease me; could I get any stupider?

Apparently so, as my gaze was still locked onto the off-white telephone resting across from me on our mahogany dining table.

Moments later, I sprang up from my chair, tripped over my own feet, and ended up lying spread eagle on the carpet when the phone emitted a loud, rather annoying ring. I then proceeded to spend another thirty-odd seconds staring at the contraption in utter disbelief. That was about all the time it took for my thought process to start functioning again; once my feet caught up with my brain, I was upright with the phone clutched tightly in my hand.

"Hello?" I gasped out, breathless from my floor-planting escapade.

There was an unsettling pause on the other line; I could hear the person breathing, yet I could sense their reluctance to speak. Finally, a deep voice asked, "Is this...'Arthur Kirkland'?"

"Yes," I answered swiftly, even as I felt ready to curl up and die of disappointment.

Another pause, though this time, I could make out a hushed conversation. _"I can't believe I'm doing this for you!" _That was the deep voice; the one I didn't recognize, or desire to hear.

_"I-I would if I c-could, o-okay?"_ A softer, gentler voice stammered in reply. Hope once again soared within me; I knew that voice. _Matthew._

The deep voice sighed, apparently giving in. He spoke to me in low, serious tones. The hope gave up, jumped out of a window, got run over by a car, and was dragged down to the fiery depths of Hell. "Bad news, I'm afraid...You're acquainted with Alfred F. Jones, correct?"

"Yes, dammit!" I screeched, "Now just tell me what the bloody hell is going on!"

"Well, there was an accident the other day..."

* * *

><p><em>TRAIN WRECK - 3OH!3<em>

There's only one thing I want you to do for me.

Don't tell Alfred, okay? If he finds out (he won't, he can't), I think he might...break. I would.

I think (not sure, never sure) he's been struggling for the money. I _know_ he's been struggling for the money. He can't lie to me; so long as I ask the right questions, I know the answer whether or not he's willing to say it himself.

I think...I _know_ he's been doing bad things, getting into trouble for the money.

And I don't deserve it. We had an agreement (I still don't know how he managed to convince me); he would work, and I would go to college. After all, I was the smart one, the one with the grades and the future.

Now, I just wish I'd lasted longer than a week. Really, that's all the time it took to get _me,_ Matthew Williams, kicked out of college? After five years of elementary, three years of junior high, and four years of high school, I'd been kicked out of college after _four days?_

Temptation. If only I had some form of immunity, some kind of _defense. _No; the temptation took a deep-rooted hold inside of me the day I arrived.

Everything started off social. I was new to the area, and the school; apparently, that rendered me interesting enough to invite to every party around, despite my avoidant personality (and possible disorder; we could never afford enough to get me diagnosed). I met a few kids; some bad, some good, all doing things that we maybe shouldn't have been doing.

Alcohol was Alfred's thing. Whenever he had time (Okay, so that was a rarity), he'd go out and party 'till the sun rose with all of his pals. I never liked any of them. Their intentions were questionable, and their actions were even more so. I like to believe he knew what he was doing; that he wasn't slowly inflicting irreversible damage upon his body.

I like to believe I'm not doing the same thing. I am, of course.

Drugs for me. An escape, from the work, from the worry, from the guilt. That last day, I came to school partially asleep and partially stoned. Of course, my professors noticed right away, and sent me packing. They hated me from the beginning.

I'm not sure where I am. One of my "friend"'s houses. I think there was a party last night...That would explain why I don't remember a minute of it.

Abel's house, perhaps. He terrified me at first, but he's not a half bad guy. I don't think he'd let me wander out into the street like I was last night, anyway. Well, like I assume I was last night.

Dammit, what's that noise at the door? Eh...I'm sure Abel will get it...

The sound still isn't gone. I guess Abel is out. Maybe he locked himself out, and now he's trying to get back in? In that case, I should let him back in. He did let me stay over, after all...

Who is this man? I've never seen him before. Why is he here? Should I know him? Should I know what's going on? Did I do something, last night...? Something...bad? Something dangerous?

Is he here to arrest me? No. He doesn't have a uniform, or handcuffs. He has a piece of paper...Maybe he needs Abel to sign something?

He knows my name. "Matthew Williams?" he asks, looking nervous. His eyes are nearly crimson (how odd), and they dart about the room as if he's avoiding my gaze. I stare at him anyway.

"That's me," I affirm, suddenly realizing how awful I must look. Well, it's not like I'll ever see him again, so does it really matter? But I don't want to look bad, even in front of some stranger...

I don't like what he's saying. What does Alfred have to do with anything? He's working back home. I'm pretty much leeching off of him, for the drugs. So what? "...There was an accident, a day or two ago, pretty nasty business, actually..."

I don't understand. Why did he come here to tell me that? Accidents happen. That's life. "...was hit."

"Who?" I question, puzzled. Of course I'd misheard him. There's no way he'd be saying that, not ever.

"Alfred was hit, by the truck. I'm sorry," he says. He looks distraught; I notice the red surrounding his equally scarlet eyes, and wonder if he knew Alfred. Wait, why is he apologizing?

Accidents happen. It's not like...anyone I know...

Who?


End file.
